


For His Health

by Chicktar



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Blow Jobs, Comfort Omega, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Sick Peter Hale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2020-10-06 13:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20508005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chicktar/pseuds/Chicktar
Summary: Alpha Peter is unwell and not healing from the fire.  Stiles is appointed/volunteers as his comfort omega and turns out to get more than he expected from the bargain.





	1. Chapter 1

Stiles watched Lydia rap sharply on the apartment door as he swiped his palms roughly down his thighs, trying to get rid of the clammy sweaty feeling. _It’s cool—I got this. No problem, just a little scenting and touching—no problem at all. Yeah, right._

The door opened and the man on the other side was somehow exactly as his photo had been and yet so vastly different that Stiles felt himself sway momentarily on his feet. Despite the burns covering most of the right side of his face, he had a steely strength to his face. His hair was wild, as if he had just gotten up, though he smelled of light shower gel and was fully dressed in worn jeans and a tight, low v-neck tee.

“Peter,” Lydia said, with a nod as she stepped briskly past him into the apartment. “This is Stiles.”

Stiles followed behind her without thought, pausing as he reached Peter to reach out a hand. Peter stared at him for a couple seconds, his nostrils flaring, then let his gaze drop to slide down over Stiles’ body as he reached out to take Stiles’ hand. Peter’s palm was large and warm, and Stiles felt a shiver run through his body as he tried to keep his cool under the pressure of Peter’s cool gaze.

“Hello, Stiles.” Peter’s voice was scratchy but low and full and Stiles felt an inconvenient warmth in his groin at the sound.

“Peter,” Stiles managed, his voice high and squeaky. “It’s n-nice to meet you.” 

Peter’s eyes were locked back onto his own now and Stiles realized they were still shaking hands, but he couldn’t figure out how to stop. Then Lydia cleared her throat and the moment was over—Peter slid his hand free and shut the door and gestured vaguely to the living room furniture behind them. 

Lydia gave a businesslike smile and strode over to the couch, so Stiles dropped his duffel next to the door and trailed after her, sitting down when she did and watching as Peter sat on the easy chair across from them. 

“Stiles has volunteered to be your comfort omega,” Lydia began, addressing Peter. “Before you finalize plans, he understands you may need to scent him to determine if he is in acceptable—”

“He’s fine,” Peter interrupted, his voice sounding strange—cold and harsher than it had been when he’d greeted Stiles at the door.

Lydia huffed, clearly annoyed at the interruption, but to Stiles’ surprise she didn’t scold Peter. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. The two of you can set up whatever schedule you like, but given the severity of your condition, Peter, it is essential that the total time spent in scenting, close contact or other comfort activity must be at least two hours a day. We recommend that for at least the first couple of weeks you consider sleeping together in the same bed. I will be checking in with both of you every two days to start. If you fail to take advantage of this opportunity, Peter, we may not be able to provide additional assistance with your recovery. Do you understand?”

Peter practically snarled when he said, “I understand, Ms. Martin. My failure to improve will not be held against your agency.”

Lydia sighed. “While the agency’s reputation is important to me, I am far more concerned about you.”

Stiles could see why. Though no taller than Stiles, Peter somehow exuded such strength that upon first meeting him Stiles hadn’t realized how ill he truly was, but with the opportunity to observe him more closely, Stiles could see that the alpha must indeed be in a fragile state. It wasn’t just that his healing wasn’t working to restore his burned skin. His eyes were red and sunken, dark circles underneath them as if he hadn’t slept well in a very long time. His hair wasn’t just unkempt, it seemed patchy and coarse. The stubble on the left side of his face was similar patchy and the skin of his neck and chest leading into his shirt was red and splotchy. He looked exhausted and frankly miserable. And perhaps angry about facing people who knew that.

“Your concern is noted. Is that all?”

Lydia sighed again. “Yes, unless you have any questions for me.”

“No.”

Lydia turned her body towards Stiles and her voice softened. “Stiles, do you have any questions you would like to ask before I leave?”

“Umm…well, I…you said that the…contact…that whether it would include anything…sexual…that would depend on the client’s needs and my consent. So I just wondered if…” His eyes flew over to Peter and those steel blue eyes locked on his.

“The agency does recommend that sexual contact be incorporated into Mr. Hale’s comfort schedule, but of course only if both you and Peter are comfortable with that.”

Peter’s eyes bored into Stiles and he could feel heat spreading through his body and starting to swell his cock. In another few seconds he would be wet just from the gaze of this man. In the midst of desperate illness he somehow seemed so composed and fucking _virile_ that Stiles could feel himself nearly ready to beg to be taken. _Fuck._

“Um, yeah, I’m….uh….totally comfortable with that,” Stiles said before he could stop himself. _Christ, what an idiot._

Peter’s mouth tilted up on the left side in a smirk and Stiles could hear amusement in Lydia’s voice when she spoke.

“Very good. Any other questions, Stiles?”

“Umm…no. I’m good.”

“Alright then,” she said, rising and crossing to Peter, who stood to meet her although Stiles could see it took effort for him to do so. They shook hands as Lydia said, “I will leave you in Stiles’ capable hands, Peter. And I will call you in two days, but of course you have my number and can call me any time.”

Peter nodded and Lydia strode to the door, letting herself out.

Peter was still standing in front of the recliner and he turned his gaze back to Stiles without a word.

“So…uhm…do you want to get started I guess? Or, I mean, if you have anything you need to do first, I can wait. Or I can go and come back—I guess we really should talk about a regular schedule, I mean, I brought a bag in case I’m staying here tonight and I told my roommate not to expect me, so it’s cool whatever you want to do, I don’t know if you’re hungry? I can actually cook really well, I mean, I’m not sure what you have in the house, but I can totally hit the grocery store tomorrow or something and I can even go get some carryout for tonight if you want or just, I mean—”

Peter had moved forward and was standing right in front of him and Stiles suddenly couldn’t recall what he’d been going to say. This was his sixth time acting as a comfort omega and something about Peter Hale had him feeling like a nervous teenager all over again. He took a breath and closed his eyes as he smelled…Peter. Despite his condition, he smelled like freshly showered _strength_. Oak and steel and something exotic like cumin or curry. Stiles could see Peter’s nostrils flaring as he inhaled deeply too. His fingers twitched with the desire to reach out and touch that patch of skin above Peter’s v-neck.

But it was Peter who reached out to touch Stiles. His fingers slid around Stiles’ waist, brushing against the bare skin under his shirt and…yep…there it was…Stiles could feel his ass getting slick even as his cock jerked and started to swell again. Peter leaned in and pressed his nose to Stiles temple, inhaling deeply. His warmth wrapped around Stiles and he found himself tilting his mouth up to press light touches of his lips to Peter’s cheek and jaw. Peter’s fingers tightened on Stiles’ skin and he felt the power of Peter’s grip, as if not diminished at all by his ill health. _Fuck, what it would be like to be pressed face down to Peter’s mattress with the man in his full strength?_ Stiles felt his channel growing slicker at the thought. Then suddenly Peter had turned them and was collapsing down onto the couch, with Stiles between his legs, his back against Peter’s chest. Peter ripped off his own v-neck and Stiles’ tee-shirts in seconds and pulled Stiles back to lay against him as Peter reclined into the sofa’s cushions. Stiles’ back was pressed against the firm heat of Peter’s chest and Peter’s nose was already against his neck, inhaling deeply even as Peter’s hands slid over Stiles’ chest. Stiles’ cock was hard as nails now and he could feel his hips rocking and thrusting up into the air uselessly. _Fuck fuck fuck but this man is hotter than the sun._ He longed to touch and feel Peter—to see what his cock looked like—the cock that was now pressing up against his ass making Stiles wetter by the second. To taste him and see the hunger in his eyes.

But then Peter was gently shushing him and pressing against his pelvis, calming Stiles’ hips and urging him to stillness. “Shhh, sweet thing. Just give us an hour or so and I’ll take care of you. Relax and be still for me, Stiles. Let me just touch you and scent your delicious aroma.” Stiles felt himself relaxing under Peter’s instruction as his urgent need slid into the background and his desire to soothe and calm Peter—to be good for this wild, masterful alpha—took over. He ceased the roll of his hips and forgot about his own slickness and how empty he felt. He let his need be subsumed in how good it felt to feel Peter’s hot breath on his neck and Peter’s warm, sure hands gliding over his upper body, feeling and exploring. He began to drift in the pleasure of simply being and of satisfying his alpha, as Peter stroked his sides and his stomach and occasionally mouthed against his neck. Every once in a while, Peter murmured soft reassurances in Stiles’ ear. “Yes, that’s right. You’re so good for me, darling. You’re making me feel so good.” 

So Stiles drifted.

And Peter’s hands slid across his skin.

Stiles melted into Peter’s chest, feeling his whole body seeming almost boneless.

As Peter’s lips ghosted across his neck and ear and cheek.

And Peter’s voice came and went, full of “darlings” and “my sweets” and “sweet boys.” 

He didn’t know how much time had passed when he noticed and Peter was unzipping his pants and nudging them open. But it took nothing more than that for his cock to take interest all over again and begin swelling immediately. It was dark outside, so it must have been—_holy shit, it must have already been a couple of hours._ Peter’s lips brushed against his ear and his fingers started to slide beneath the waistband of Stiles’ boxers. _Oh fuck, YES._ His hips started to roll again without Stiles’ conscious thought and he could feel Peter’s hard cock beneath his ass. “Do you want me to touch you, Stiles?” Peter’s voice came, rumbing in his ear, and Stiles nodded frantically, hearing his own voice half-whispering and half-whimpering “Yes, please, Peter, please yes please, please, I…please…” _Holy shit, this alpha had him reduced to a desperate, needy bitch with a few slight touches and endearments._ He couldn’t remember the last time he had wanted anything—or any_one_—so badly. Perhaps never. The air around them was filled with electricity and Stiles was afraid he might come in his pants the moment Peter’s fingers brushed against the flesh of his cock. _Please don’t let me embarrass myself. Oh please. Fuck yes, please please please._

“Shhh…” Peter said again, “I’ve got you. Try and stay still for me, darling.”

Stiles tried. He tried not to rock and thrust. He tried to stay still as Peter’s fingers started to slide down and began to wrap around his shaft. He twitched and jerked when those warm fingers slid over and grasped him, feeling so much better than his own hand ever felt, like electricity and velvet and fire and _want_. But he stayed as motionless as he could and just moaned quietly as Peter squeezed for a moment and then slid gently up and then down his length.

“Unnhh,” he moaned softly, overwhelmed by how good Peter’s hand felt—that power around where he was most vulnerable was so contained and controlled. He tried to reach underneath himself, to dig for Peter’s pants but Peter gripped his wrist tightly with this free hand and murmured, “No, Stiles. Just you right now, my sweet.” He brought Stiles palm up to rest on his chest and then Peter’s large, strong hands were pushing at Stiles’ pants and boxers until they rested below his cock and balls and Peter began stroking him in earnest, his other hand cradling Stiles’ balls and his warm breath tickling Stiles’ ear as he murmured about how gorgeous Stiles was, all spread out for him and trying so hard to be good.

“That’s it, sweet thing. That’s it, just feel.”

Peter’s hand, somehow wet now though Stiles hadn’t noticed Peter licking it or getting lube—was he—was Stiles just dripping that much precum?

“I can feel that you want me, Stiles. I feel your hunger and your desire. I love your need, darling. I promise I’m going to take care of you.”

Peter’s hand was squeezing harder now and stroking him in long, even strokes and Stiles could feel the slick in his ass and smell the tang of his own sweat.

“That’s it, darling. You’re doing so well—you’re making me so happy right now.”

Peter’s hand sped up ever so slightly and Stiles’ toes curled with the electricity that was tingling through his body.

“I want to see you come, my sweet boy.”

Peter’s lips brushed against his neck.

Stiles’ balls pulled in tight and he felt the surge of electricity rushing hotter and more urgently through him. He clutched at Peter’s thighs and tried to hold on as Peter’s hand moved even faster.

Stiles was sure it had only been ninety seconds and he was going to blow all over himself and make a disastrous embarrassing fool of himself.

“Yes, Stiles. So good for me. Will you come for me? Make yourself a dirty mess for—”

Stiles felt his orgasm like a freight train rip through him and drive him over and then his eyes were closed and he shouted aloud as he felt the pull of his cock spurting over his own chest in rough jerks, once, then again, and then finally again as Peter worked him perfectly, wringing out every last bit that he had to give.

“Yessss,” Peter hissed. “That’s it, my sweet. Thank you, Stiles, you were so good for me.”

_Holy shit_. He kept his eyes closed and silently prayed that Peter would keep him for a while.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles thinks (obsesses? worries? wonders?) about Peter.

This kitchen was way too fancy for macaroni and cheese and simple baked chicken. Stiles was so nervous, rooting around in Peter’s fancy house, especially after they had almost had their first fight earlier over Stiles even being allowed to make dinner for Peter. Stiles shouldn’t be surprised that Peter was such a stubbornly proud asshole—after all that was pretty much his entire personality as far as Stiles had known before Lydia called him about Peter’s condition. The part that didn’t make sense was how fucking drawn Stiles was to Peter—how desperately he had wanted to be the one picked as his comfort omega. He had practically begged Lydia to submit his name to Peter and hadn’t been able to sleep all night on Tuesday waiting for the news of who Peter had selected. And then their first couple hours together had been… Well, there was no point in dancing around it. Laying down with Peter skin to skin and being held by him and called “darling” and then being stroked to orgasm by those fucking incredible hands of his… Shit. It had been the most intense sexual experience of Stiles’ life. By far. By fucking light years.

Afterward, Stiles had wanted to take care of Peter. Not just wanted to—needed to. But Peter had rebuffed every fucking offer Stiles made—to return the favor with a handjob, or maybe even something more. Nope. Peter just said he was fine and he didn’t have the energy and his orgasms were none of Stiles’s business. None of his business! After he just let Peter bring him off in the most spectactular amazing way possible! What a fucking dick. But Stiles had taken it in stride, and instead just gotten a warm, wet washcloth and started to clean himself up, but when he had reached for Peter’s hand to do the same, Peter had jerked back roughly and told him he was an adult alpha and didn’t need to be babied. Stiles had almost yelled at him then, but at the last second he had remembered he wasn’t here as Peter’s…he didn’t know…boyfriend or whatever. He was Peter’s comfort omega. He was there to find a way to provide this fucking dickhead alpha with what he needed. Whether he liked it or not. It was his _job_. And he was _good at it_. He wasn’t about to let some superior prick intimidate him out of doing what was needed. No fucking way. So he had sucked it up and switched gears to food. They both could use Stiles making Peter a nice, homecooked meal. So he had pretended he was hungry and that he was sick of takeout and then he had somehow managed to fend off Peter’s attempts to take over and instead make dinner for Stiles. It had involved lots of backpedaling and pretending to be a picky eater and a little hyperactive and in need of something to do until Peter had finally given in and agreed to stay in the living room. 

So here Stiles was, angry and frustrated but unable to stop running back over their argument in his mind over and over again while still trying desperately not to bang around too much and give away how lost he was in Peter’s gourmet digs with fancy utensils and equipment Stiles had never seen. He was sure that if Peter heard him he would get up and come in to take over, and that was the last thing either of them needed. Stiles was a natural born caretaker—not just as an omega, it was also his personality, who he had always been and turned out to still be now that he was an adult and finding his calling. Here, with Peter, this was not only his urge as an omega, but it was his job. And…it was somehow already more than that. Had been more than that before Peter had agreed to the arrangement. Something in him needed to be a part of restoring Peter to the strong, vibrant, arrogant, control freak of an alpha that he was—that he should be. He needed Peter to let him do this—at least this one thing of providing a meal made with his own two hands. 

And heaven knew Peter needed to rest and to have a good meal or two or twenty. Holy fuck, but Peter was in a bad way. That fact was probably the only reason he had ultimately agreed to allow Stiles to prepare their dinner. Standing there arguing with Peter as the alpha half-reclined on the couch, Stiles had finally had the chance to really take in Peter’s appearance at length and in detail. Despite his still broad shoulders, with his shirt off Stiles could see every rib clearly defined in his chest, portraying how thin he was and just how much muscle loss he had suffered. His eyes were sunken and the flesh around them was dark and sagging. His lips were cracked and rough, and his face was thin and haggard. He was almost like a shadow version of Peter—an animated shell imbued with Peter’s personality and voice, but with none of the physical vitality, strength and power that had always let the man’s presence dominate any room. Not that any of that meant Stiles was drawn to him any less, apparently.

Stiles sighed as he finally found serving plates and started dishing the food out. 

* * *

“You are not my housekeeper, Stiles,” Peter said, his voice clearly showing signs of annoyance, as Stiles slid around him moving dishes between the table, sink and dishwasher. 

“I’m well aware of that, Peter, but as the person who made the mess, I am entirely capable of cleaning up after myself.” He pulled the chicken serving platter out of Peter’s hands and stood still, physically blocking Peter’s path around the counter and into the kitchen. “Now sit down. If you insist on staying in here to make sure I do everything right, then take a seat at the counter to watch or something. You’re making me nervous.”

That got a small twitch of the lip from Peter. “Maybe you should be nervous, little lamb.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Are you sitting?”

Peter stared at him for at least thirty seconds, then finally said, “Very well. I think I’ll go take a shower and get ready for bed. You can entertain yourself or let yourself out when you’re done and get off to whatever else you have in mind for this evening.” He pivoted and left the room as Stiles stared after him watching his stride and noticing that it was more of a shuffle and not Peter’s usual cocky saunter. He really was unwell. 

Wait—let himself out? Get off to whatever else he wanted to do? Did Peter not want him to stay the night? But he thought… They were supposed to sleep together. Lydia had said it and yeah, it hadn’t been necessary for his other comfort clients so far, but… He stood in the kitchen with the left over chicken in his hands, staring at the hallway where Peter had disappeared. Maybe Peter just assumed Stiles had some kind of evening after-dinner plans with his friends but he would come back to sleep. Or maybe Peter just didn’t want him around. After all, Peter didn’t really want anyone around. And Stiles would almost certainly be last on the list if he didn’t need his status as an omega right now. Of course he wasn’t Peter’s type. He knew that. He was…well, he was Stiles, for Christ’s sake. It was just recommended—it was possible Peter could improve just from the daytime contact they had. So it was none of Stiles’s business if Peter didn’t want him there at night. He clearly valued his privacy and… Shit, maybe he was involved with someone. Stiles guessed it couldn’t be anything meaningful or Peter wouldn’t need Stiles. But he could be having casual sex, especially with a beta or even another alpha and still have need for a comfort omega if he refused to let his partner care for him in any way. Which, Stiles admitted, sounded just like Peter. He wouldn’t be surprised if Peter hired the most expensive call girls or call boys, or whatever you called them—gigolos?—that there were in town and fucked them once and shoved them out the door with their shoes and jacket and payment in hand as he slammed the door behind them. 

He turned and walked into the kitchen finally, setting the plate of chicken on the counter and started to dig in the cabinets to see what the rich person equivalent of Tupperware was. 

But he couldn’t stop thinking about Peter. And what kind of sex he was probably having. And with who. And as natural as the asshole-kicking-the-one-night-stand-out picture had seemed in Stiles’s head, it didn’t fit the Peter from a few hours ago at all. The Peter that had held Stiles close and slid his fingers gently, but firmly over Stiles’s body. The Peter that had soothed him with soft touches and murmured endearments even as he drove Stiles to distraction with whispered dirty talk about Stiles’ scent and the softness of his skin. That Peter hadn’t seemed like he was indifferent to Stiles—hadn’t seemed like he wanted to use Stiles and cast him aside as soon as they were done.

By the time Stiles finished cleaning up the kitchen, including putting the leftovers in the fridge in these fancy glass bowls with these perfectly tight fitting rubber lids that Stiles coveted more than he wanted to admit, he was feeling anxious and stressed and still had no idea what he should do with himself. He knew his ego was bruised by Peter brushing him off so easily and that he shouldn’t be making any of this about himself. This was his job, not a romantic endeavor. However attracted he was to Peter, he had to ignore that. He was here to provide comfort to an alpha in great need. Even if that alpha was too stubborn to admit he needed anyone or anything.

Except, he really had admitted it. Just by agreeing to meet with Lydia at all. And then by reviewing potential providers and selecting Stiles. He had admitted he needed help.

And he hadn’t said that he didn’t want Stiles to stay the night. He’d said he could entertain himself or let himself out when he was done.

Well, he wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. This job might not result in Stiles’s ultimate fantasy of a lifetime filled with hot-as-hell sex with Peter, but he was going to make damn sure it would end with Peter being healthy again. And hopefully he would get to see Peter’s cock at least once and feel it fucking him deep and slow…

Resolved, Stiles grabbed his bag from the living room where he’d dropped it and headed down the hallway to Peter’s bedroom. “Hey, honey,” he called when he reached the door, “cover up if you’re shy ‘cuz I’m comin’ in!”


	3. Chapter 3

Peter was laying on his bed, in a pair of thin, soft grey sleep pants, with glasses perched on his nose and a book in his hands. He looked hot and adorable at the same time and Stiles suddenly wanted to bury his nose in Peter’s stomach and just sleep there for a month.

Peter was looking over the top of his glasses at Stiles. His eyes dropped down to the duffel in Stiles hand and then slid back up Stiles’s body until they met Stiles’s gaze again. “If you want to shower, there are clean towels in the closet in the bathroom. I think you’ll find the water pressure is excellent.” Then he turned back to his book as if he hadn’t just invited Stiles to get naked in the adjoining room.

Stiles swallowed. Fine. He could play that game. “Great. Thanks.” He stood staring at Peter for another minute and then finally managed to make himself move around the bed to the bathroom.

Half an hour later he was clean and fresh and decked out in his most cozy sleep pants and t-shirt. Well, really, it was a brand new set he’d hardly worn because he hadn’t wanted to come to Peter’s house with the ratty, hole-ridden flannel pants and threadbare Star Wars t-shirt that were his favorites to sleep in. But whatever. He was ready. Ready to conquer the smug prick that was Peter. He could totally be professional. He would just get in bed with Peter. That’s all. He would get in bed, pull the covers up, put his glasses on the nightstand and…sleep. 

He looked at the Stiles in the mirror. Fuck. Neither of them were ready for this. Peter clearly didn’t want him here. Maybe he should have just gone. Like Peter suggested. Like Peter _wanted_.

No. Fuck that. Peter agreed to the contract and Peter had sent him in here to get ready for bed. That was all the consent Stiles needed to do his fucking job and do it right. After all, if Stiles left… Well, Lydia had made it clear that Peter wouldn’t even consider anyone else as a comfort omega and the only thing left for him after that was the hospital, and Stiles suspected Peter wouldn’t allow that as long as he had any last alpha strength left in his body.

Stiles looked at himself in the mirror. He rolled his head to the left and right, looking closely at the skin of his neck. He thought he looked scentable. Maybe even biteable. It would have to do.

Peter was sitting right where he’d been with those adorable reading glasses still perched low on his nose and Stiles immediately wondered if he’d be able to make it through the night without humping Peter like a hyper puppy. Stiles dropped his duffel on a chair Peter had against the wall by the dresser, and approached the opposite side of the bed. Peter didn’t look up or move. Stiles pulled the cover down, lay down and let his drop onto the pillows. Yeah, that wasn’t going to work. He tugged the top one off and dropped it to the floor, then set to work punching and folding the remaining pillow into shape. He turned on his side and smooshed and mangled the pillow some more, dropping his head down and lifting it up a few times in the process, until he finally got it just right. 

And realized that Peter was staring at him over the top of those fucking adorable Daddy glasses of his.

Stiles refused to be intimidated so easily. He grinned at Peter and said, “Whatcha readin’?”

Ha. Take that, you big, cranky ass alpha.

“World Economics and Gender Disparities,” Peter said in a deeply bored tone. 

Oh. Stiles fumbled in his brain for something intelligent to say. “I heard that one has some serious third act problems.” He closed his eyes in hopes of hiding from the no doubt disappointed expression on Peter’s face. But when he peaked out from under his right eyelid, Peter had turned back to his book and the right side of his mouth was actually turned up in a small half-smile. He closed his eyes again and let himself focus on how comfortable Peter’s mattress was and how silky the sheets felt on his bare feet and arms. And he tried not to focus too much on the warm spicy sent of Peter surrounding him. He could really get used to sleeping in a place like this. 

* * *

A roar of thunder startled Stiles roughly out of the wonderous, deep slumber he’d been in and he lurched upright, eyes immediately going to the window, looking for any sign of lightning flashes from behind the curtains. He was so startled he was breathing heavily and the room seemed heavy and hot around him. Everything outside was dark and quiet as far as he could tell and he reached for the curtains, to take a peak outside when he felt a hard pain in his shin as Peter kicked him. 

He half-swallowed his grunt of pain and surprise when his eyes fell on Peter and saw the alpha’s skin, pale and drenched in sweat. Peter’s eyes were closed but his chest was heaving as he took rushed, ragged breaths. He looked like he had just run a marathon. Before Stiles could react, Peter leaned upward suddenly, threw his head back and shouted “NO!” in a prolonged sort of roar, his hands clenching into fists in the sheets on either side of his body. 

Not thunder, Stiles realized somewhere in the back of his mind. It had been Peter that had woken him with that roar, or one like it.

Moving swiftly, Stiles slid his own body in a smooth gesture up the bed and behind and under Peter’s head and chest, just as the alpha dropped back down to the bed, ending up in Stiles’ lap his head on Stiles’ stomach. Stiles didn’t know whether he should be surprised Peter didn’t startle awake from the disruption, but he alpha did nothing other than continue panting roughly and occasionally jerking a leg or tugging roughly at the sheet clenched in his hand.

A nightmare then. A bad one. 

Stiles watched Peter’s face—the burned flesh covering his right ear and much of the right side of his face stood out an angry red, much more violent and tortured looking than usual here, at night, with the rest of him so pallid and wan looking in the clutch of his night terror. Stiles leaned back gently and tried to get comfortable against the headboard, then slowly and softly slid his fingers into Peter’s hair. When his fingers met with Peter’s scalp, he let them slowly slide down over Peter’s head and then out of his hair and down Peter’s cheeks, gently caressing the skin there as he whispered, “I’m here, Alpha.” Peter’s head jerked roughly to the left and then back to center and he continued to breathe hard and rough as Stiles let his fingers round down around Peter’s jaw and then slid outward and back along the jawline to Peter’s ears. “We’re here together, Peter, in your apartment, in your space.” He let his palms cup the sides of Peter’s face and gently nudged Peter’s head, turning it to the side. “We’re safe here, Peter. You’re in control, Alpha.” He slipped the hand that was between Peter’s cheek and his stomach out a bit and lifted up his own t-shirt, baring his skin until Peter’s right cheek was laying directly against him, flesh to flesh. He was surprised how smooth Peter’s cheek felt against him. His stomach couldn’t tell that Peter had been burned. Pressed against him like this, Peter’s cheek just feel cold and wet from sweat and smooth as satin. He slid his left hand down Peter’s neck and onto Peter’s chest, letting his fingers splay out and rest over the unfairly chiseled pectoral muscle. He really was drenched in sweat. He must have been caught up in that nightmare for a long time. Not for the first time, Stiles wished he wasn’t quite such a deep sleeper. Perhaps he would set an alarm on his phone for the next night. Maybe every hour. Just enough to make sure—

Peter growled softly and his hand flew up to grip Stiles’ other arm hard and tight.

Stiles froze and looked down at the still sleeping alpha. “It’s Stiles, Peter. I’m here with you. In your bed. In your space. In your control,” he murmured, putting extra weight on every time he said the ‘your.’

Peter inhaled suddenly and deeply and then twitched and pressed his nose to Stiles’ skin, breathing in quickly several times.

“That’s it, alpha. I’m here. I’m here for you.”

Peter stilled for several moments and Stiles was just beginning to plot how to remove his forearm from Peter’s steel-tight grip when Peter flung his arm away and instead turned his whole body around and dug his arms underneath Stiles, clutching the omega to himself and burying his face entirely in Stiles’ stomach. Stiles froze again as the alpha breathed in a few times and then suddenly began crying, weeping into Stiles as his arms clamped around Stiles’ torso, leaving them both shaking together with the sobs that racked Peter’s body.

After the initial stunned shock, Stiles finally managed to reciprocate, sliding his hands into the alpha’s hair, letting one cup the back of the alpha’s neck even as the other continued to slide over his scalp and through his hair softly and continuously.

And so he sat, holding Peter in Peter’s bed, as the alpha sobbed despairingly into him. 

“That’s it, Peter,” Stiles whispered. “It’s okay to feel this. I’m here—I’m here to feel it with you, Alpha.”

Time passed and Stiles eventually became aware of a tight deep pain in his own chest. And the dampness on his face from his own tears. And the fact that Peter wasn’t crying anymore. Just resting against him and finally breathing normally again. Stiles fidgeted slightly, moving his hips to get a slightly different position for his hips, and Peter tilted his head back, looking up at Stiles with red, worn eyes.

He opened his mouth, about to say—he didn’t know what he’d been about to say—when Peter shook his head the tiniest bit and dropped his face back down to press kiss against Stiles’ stomach. It was just a press of lips, but it was soft and somehow firm at the same time and it lasted so long, moments into seconds into maybe a minute. Until Stiles wondered if he were half asleep with how dizzying such a simple, practically chaste, kiss had left him feeling.

Then Peter did it again, pressing a soft, almost painfully sweet kiss to Stiles’ skin an inch to the left of the first. 

Then another an inch below that one.

Then one just above the waistband of Stiles’ sleep pants.

And then Peter’s fingers were slipping below that waistband tugging down to give Peter’s lips room to press another kiss to the vulnerable soft skin there. The kiss was still the same and yet somehow as far from simple and chaste as was possible and Stiles started to panic about where this was going. Peter…Peter was exposed and injured—he shouldn’t be subjected to…to what…Stiles didn’t know…how could he be taking advantage when he wasn’t even moving…but still the heat was pooling in his groin and his cock was swelling and Peter was…

Peter was kneeling between his legs and sliding his pants down further and nudging Stiles’ ass to urge him to move so…

“Peter, we…you…I shouldn’t—”

Peter’s eyes narrowed and he…growled. Peter growled at him. _Peter Hale fucking growled at him_. In bed. For trying to do the right thing. What the fuck! 

Stiles opened his mouth and was working up one of his best all-time tongue lashings when Peter whispered, “I…need…”

Stiles froze.

Peter tugged at his pants and Stiles thoughtlessly lifted his hips, letting the alpha strip them down his legs in one smooth motion.

He stared at Peter. What? What did he need?

When Peter’s eyes dropped to Stiles’ cock, Stiles’ eyes followed and they were both staring at the same thing. Stiles’ cock. Hard and full, twitching with each breath Peter exhaled onto it. A smear of precum across the slit.

Peter’s tongue slipped out over the head of Stiles’ cock and Stiles jerked roughly. “Peter.” Fuck, he sounded like he was whining. But this was wrong. Wasn’t it? When Peter was so vulnerable? Fresh out of his night terrors and exhausted from sorrow? How could he be fucking aroused now?

Peter’s tongue disappeared back inside his mouth and his eyes closed as if savoring the flavor. Stiles’s cock twitched and he could feel himself throbbing suddenly with need. He managed to force out a weak “I don’t think—” but was interrupted by Peter’s movement as he slid his arms out from under Stiles’ back and grabbed hold of Stiles’ hips in a grip of steel that Stiles knew would leave bruises. Peter’s red-rimmed gray eyes looked up and him and he pressed Stiles down into the mattress. “I need to take care of you,” Peter growled, each word slow and deliberate, and then he plunged his mouth down over Stiles’s cock and Stiles was lost in the hottest, silkiest, most perfect mouth he’d ever felt on his cock. Peter wasted no time, immediately working Stiles’ cock over like it was his mission to make the younger man come in record time. He sucked and bobbed his head and slid his tongue over and around Stiles’ length and in seconds had Stiles’ shaking and moaning with his own need.

“Oh fuck, Peter! Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Your mouth. Peter.”

He suddenly couldn’t stop talking. He had never felt anything like this. Peter’s mouth was so fucking hot and wet and velvety and it was sucking him dry and he was throbbing and the need was so strong and his chest felt tight and Peter’s lips were stretched around him, that gorgeous face, and Peter’s hands were pressing him down and he was so fucking strong with all that power and how could he be so powerful when he was so sick and that wet heat and Stiles cock was slamming up against the back of Peter’s throat as Peter’s nose was buried in Stiles’ pubes and suddenly Stiles was gone, jerking his orgasm out into the back of Peter’s throat and shouting Peter’s name and clinging onto Peter’s forearms for something, anything, to ground him.

_Holy fuck. _

_Holy fucking fuck._

He panted and stilled and tried to relax his fingers where he’d been clutching onto Peter’s arms. 

And then Peter was moving them around, laying on the bed and pulling Stiles into his arms, petting his head and urging him forward to rest on the alpha’s chest. “That’s it, my sweet boy, that’s it,” Peter murmured, as Stiles started to try to make sense out of what was happening—what had just happened.


	4. Chapter 4

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong with you?” Lydia’s voice was sharp as she employed that no-nonsense tone she liked to use when she had her professional persona on.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Stiles said, unable to keep a touch of defensiveness from creeping into his voice. He stared out the window, watching Peter get into his car and pull out of Lydia’s driveway.

“Mm hmm,” Lydia said, lips pursing. “Then perhaps you can explain why somehow you are pining away for the very man you have?”

Stiles whipped around and stared at Lydia. Seated in the wingback chair with her straight-backed posture, her immaculately coiffed hair and nails and fashionable shoes, all in her perfectly decorated living room, she looked almost like royalty. He shook his head. “I don’t _have_ Peter.”

“You _are_ sleeping with him every night.”

“That doesn’t—”

“And essentially living at his house.”

“It’s for—”

“You’re about to tell me none of that means anything because it’s just for his health as his comfort omega.”

“If you wouldn’t interrupt me then yes that’s what I fucking was saying. And you know it. I sure as hell don’t _have_ him like a boyfriend would. Like anything other than essentially a long term prostitute would.”

“Mmm,” Lydia hummed again. “Interesting choice of words. I really don’t picture Peter as the type to engage prostitutes.”

“Well maybe you should rethink that opinion because he’s sure as fuck paying me!” Stiles shouted. He paced back and forth restlessly. “Paying me a fucking fortune, in fact,” he muttered under his breath. Thinking about the money that had been building up in his bank account the last four weeks had started to make him feel nauseated lately. It was so much money. And he wasn’t even living on it since his roommate had moved in his own girlfriend and they’d taken Stiles off the lease. He’d thought that when he wasn’t staying at Peter’s he would just stay at his dad’s until he decided on a new place. But he hadn’t spent a single night in his old childhood bedroom. He’d spent every single night, 23 of them and counting, in Peter’s expensive, memory foam California King, sleeping like a baby. Except, of course, when he was coming his brains out from Peter’s hands or mouth or—fuck, Stiles thought sometimes he could come just from Peter’s voice and the words he seemed to endlessly murmur…

“Are you entirely incapable of holding back on your little sex fantasies about the man who just walked out the door for even ten minutes?” Lydia’s voice pierced his little thought bubble and Stiles turned back to her realize, a little belatedly, that he was already getting hard just thinking about Peter’s voice. He slouched down into her couch and sighed. “Stiles,” Lydia said, “were we in the same meeting? You both just confirmed to me for the third week in a row that things are going quite well between the two of you. Far more successfully than I ever would have dared to guess, frankly, considering the trouble our agency has had finding a good fit for Peter.”

Stiles snorted. “That’s because your normal staff are all insane. Who wouldn’t want to sleep with Peter Hale?” The thought made no sense to him.

“Leaving aside the ridiculous possibility that Peter’s sharp tongue might turn someone off, I was referring primarily to the fact that Peter has rejected every comfort omega we have provided him until you.”

Stiles blinked at her. “What? Why? You didn’t send Jackson or Isaac, did you? I mean it’s obvious that—”

“It’s confidential, as you well know,” Lydia snapped. “And not the point. Peter rejected every other omega sent by not only our agency but two others. Always within 48 hours of being assigned. Sometimes within 48 minutes. Yet you have been with him every night for the last three weeks. And if you hadn’t noticed, he has finally started to heal.”

Of course, Stiles knew Peter was finally healing. It was still slower than any patient he’d ever seen or worked with. Stiles was sure Peter still suffered a great deal of pain, in fact, but it did seem to be lessening. Skin at the edges of the scarred portions of his body had started to clear, just maybe a centimeter or so in places. But Stiles was sure that meant that nerves and structures under the skin were healing, too, and that Peter must be healing more than the eye could see. It was so torturously slow, though.

“We both sat right here while Peter said, ‘Stiles is more than adequate and I would prefer to continue our arrangement if it remains acceptable for him and for your agency.’ Coming from Peter that is essentially the equivalent for any other patient of them raving incessantly and leaving glowing five-tar reviews all over the internet. So if Peter is satisfied with your services, and you—”

“But that’s my point? How can he be satisfied with my services when he won’t fucking let me _do_ anything for him? What the hell is he paying me for? I’m worse than a fucking prostitute, Lyds. I’m…I’m…Is there even a word for what I am? What do you call a hooker who gets paid without even doing anything? No. No! It’s worse than that—a hooker who gets paid for _taking_ all the pleasure!”

Lydia audible closed her notebook and shifted in her seat. Stiles chose to ignore it.

“Seriously. I’m like a succubus. I’m just sucking up all the pleasure and getting off constantly and that’s on top of the fact that I’m living like a fucking prince in the man’s fancy ass apartment with his amazing espresso machine and high end coffee beans and his incredible shower with four—_four!_—shower heads and riding around in his expensive European car while my Jeep sits around barely getting ten miles a day on it just going to campus and back while Peter provides every goddamn thing in the world for me and barely seems to progress at all. It’s probably my fault that he’s healing so slow—the way I’m sucking up all the fucking pleasure and he never even—”

“Stiles,” Lydia finally interrupted, her voice quiet but as sharp as a knife. “I don’t need to know the details of your sexual arrangement.”

“But there is no fucking arrangement. The details are that Peter touches _me_ and uses his hands and mouth on me and I pant and moan and lose control and come all the fucking time and I have barely touched the man and I certainly haven’t returned the favor and if he isn’t getting better because all I do is take and take and take and I know fucking full well that I should be taking care of him and that he should be—”

“Stiles.” This time Lydia’s voice sounded almost like a groan. A very tired groan. Stiles shut up.

They sat for a minute in silence as Stiles stared up at Lydia’s ceiling like it might have some answer written there.

“I have a feeling I’m going to regret this,” Lydia said quietly. “Are you saying that most of your sexual contact with Peter has been designed to cause your orgasm and ignoring his own?”

Stiles could practically feel his eyes rolling in his head. “Yes, Ms. Martin. That is what I am saying. Or, in layman’s terms—you know, the kind of language that two friends might use when they’re talking over one of the friend’s serious fucking life problems—Peter jacks me off and sucks me off and touches me and licks me and takes me to the fucking church every single day multiple times a day like you wouldn’t believe and he is so fucking amazing and good and no one’s hands or lips have ever felt like his do and no one has ever made me come half as hard as he does on a bad day and I feel like the biggest dickwad in the entire universe because I am being paid a fucking fortune—at least it sure as fuck feels like a fortune to me—to help take care of this man, to help heal him, and instead all I’m doing is taking and enjoying and giving absolutely nothing back and he is barely progressing at all and he’s so fucking strong and smart and funny—Jesus Christ but he’s funny—he doesn’t show it all the time but it makes my head spin how he comes up with these lines and it isn’t fair how he’s suffering and I’m supposed to be helping—to be making him better—”

“I’m assuming that Peter is controlling the specifics of your sexual interactions,” Lydia interjected quietly.

Stiles snorted. “Where’d you get that idea?”

He looked at her and one corner of her mouth tilted up. “Peter Hale is not just an alpha werewolf—he’s also more than a little Type A.”

A small chuckle slipped from Stiles. “The Type A-iest.”

“Which means you are doing with your client exactly what your client wants and prefers.” She arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow at him.

“But it can’t be what is really best for him—I mean seriously—have you ever seen a werewolf heal this slow? If me being there is helping then surely it would help more if…”

“If?”

“If…if he just let me…I don’t know…”

“This sounds to me like you aren’t getting what you would prefer from the sexual arrangement. And while I sympathize with my friend who clearly wants the Big Bad Wolf he is sleeping with to ravage him more directly than is currently happening, I have to remind my independent contractor that the assignment is not intended to satisfy his own sexual needs and preferences but those of his client.”

Stiles felt something tighten in his chest. _Shit_. He hadn’t meant… He just felt so bad—he wanted to do so much more for Peter than he was doing and yes, okay, he totally selfishly also wanted to get to see and hold and stroke and taste Peter’s cock and maybe someday even get to feel it pounding into him… Fuck. He was such an asshole.

“You’re not an asshole,” Lydia whispered, right by his side. Her hands were wrapped around his and she had her forehead pressed up to his own and he hadn’t even noticed her coming over to him. Not to mention that he hadn’t realized he’d said any of that out loud.

“I think maybe I am.”

“I don’t. And we both know I’m never wrong. And you’re also not a prostitute. If you aren’t comfortable with the sexual aspects of the relationship we can discuss removal of that aspect with Peter or can look into severing the contract entirely. You aren’t meant to be participating in sexual acts that are in any way without your consent, Stiles.”

“Geez, Lyds, you know it’s not that. It’s not that I don’t want it or I’m not okay with it. It’s just…it’s driving me crazy. I want to take care of him.”

“I know. It’s one of the best things about you. It’s why you’re so good at this job. It’s why you were so good at helping your dad all those years. But you have to work within the parameters that your patient allows you.”

Yeah. She was right. Stiles knew she was right. He couldn’t force Peter into the sexual relationship he wanted. They weren’t a couple. This wasn’t about his satisfaction. Stiles laughed internally—his own satisfaction. The point was that he needed to try harder to be satisfied with getting all the satisfaction and doing almost none of the work. What a fucking insane position to be in. And why wasn’t he happy with it? Peter Fucking Hale was touching and sucking him every single day and giving him the most monumentally spectacularly mind-blowing orgasms he’d ever even dreamt about. How the fuck was that a problem?

He pulled back and kissed Lydia gently on the cheek. “Thanks, Lyds.”

“You’re welcome.”

He got up and grabbed his messenger bag. “Talk to you next week.”

“Yes, you will.”

Stiles was halfway out the door when she said, “And Stiles?”

He turned back.

“If it’s still bothering you in a few more days you could always do the unthinkable and talk to Peter about it.”

He stared at her for a second and then smiled and shook his head, heading out the door and shutting it behind him. Yeah, right.

* * *

When he got home—well, to Peter’s—a few hours later, Stiles was feeling immensely better. He almost couldn’t remember what the problem was. Peter Hale. Peter Hale was practically his sex genie—giving him the best three orgasms he could wish for every goddamn day. And he was ready for one right now.

“Peter?” he called into the apartment.

“Office,” Peter’s voice came in return.

Stiles dropped his bag, toed his shoes off and trotted down the hall, tapping on and then opening the door to Peter’s office without waiting for a response. Peter was in his big leather chair with the phone held to his head and turned to nod briefly at Stiles before turning back to something on his computer monitor. Stiles waved to the alpha and plopped himself down on the couch that sat opposite Peter’s desk. He watched Peter on the call for a couple minutes, admiring the alpha’s arms and neck. He let his mind wander to what Peter might want to do to him after the call and soon he had one hand rubbing his swelling dick through his pants as he watched Peter’s fingers idly twirling a pencil. God, he loved those fingers. So precise and careful and yet so strong. Peter said something in a decisive tone of voice to whatever poor underling he was talking to and their eyes met briefly. He saw Peter’s eyes flick down to where his hand was playing with his cock and when they flicked back up to Stiles’ eyes, he could have sworn they looked darker. Stiles smiled at Peter and slid his hips down to the edge of the couch cushion, bringing both hands to his fly to snap open the button and tug the zipper down. As desired, Peter’s eyes slid back down to where he was now lifting his hips and shoving his clothes down past his ass, his hard cock springing into his hand at the same time he used the other hand to tug his t-shirt over his head. Peter said something into the phone, his voice sounding like a growl and ending with a quick lick of his lips. Fuck, yeah, Stiles thought. He wanted that tongue and that voice trained on him. God, he hoped this call ended soon. He stroked himself deliberately, watching very little movement of Peter’s body that he could see—his huge, round shoulders sliding under the sleeve of his shirt, the muscles of his forearms twitching, the tip of his tongue, his adam’s apple sliding up and down his incredible neck and most of all those blue eyes getting steadily darker.

“Go!” Peter finally roared into the phone. “Do what I asked and we can talk about the rest tomorrow.” He slammed the phone down and then practically glared at Stiles over his desk. 

“And what, exactly, do you think you are doing, Little One?” His voice to Stiles was the opposite of a roar—it was practically a purr, quiet, but carrying clearly and with a little touch of roughness underneath.

“Showing you want you could have in your hands or your mouth if only you were alpha enough to come get it,” Stiles teased, letting his hips rock up and shove his hard cock into his fist.

And then like lightning, Peter was on him on a flash. He was over the desk and in front of the couch in one smooth fluid sort of leap that somehow made not a single noise and slapping Stiles’ hand away as he plunged his mouth down over Stiles’ dick, engulfing it entirely and sucking hard as the head of Stiles’ cock found it’s way into Peter’s throat.

“Unnnhhh,” Stiles moaned. Fuck yes. Oh fuck yes. How he could have wanted anything other than this? Peter held his head there and sucked and his tongue slid around Stiles for several seconds and Stiles felt himself going from hard and into it to oh-my-God-I’m-so-ready-fuck-I’m-gonna-cum-soon-please-don’t-stop in record time. He let one hand drop onto Peter’s shoulder, loving the sensation of all that alpha controlled power and strength laying there just under his fingertips. Then Peter was pulling back and Stiles’ hips lifted trying to follow him but Peter’s hand was there to hold him down and then Peter was bobbing his head, his wet, hot lips and tongue and mouth sliding over Stiles’ length again and again and all that hot suction and the feeling of the head of his cock popping in and out of the stop of Peter’s throat at the end of each stroke had Stiles’ on the verge of orgasm in moments.

“Fuck, Peter,” Stiles groaned. “I’m… oh FUCK!” And then he was coming into Peter’s throat, his body curling down over Peter’s head as he jerked and spasmed out his pleasure.

He panted and leaned back finally, trying to regain his senses and staring down at the man kneeling before him who somehow still seemed entirely stoic and in control even as his tongue swiped across his lips and he raised an eyebrow up at Stiles.

“What, exactly, do you call that performance?” the alpha asked. Stiles couldn’t tell if his tone was irritated or not.

“I don’t know. I was just thinking about how you looked there at your desk and…” He didn’t know what to say. He’d just been feeling so into the thing they had going and into Peter after thinking about all of it for hours after leaving Lydia’s.

“Hmm. Is that so? Well it was very distracting. So I think for the rest of this evening you may just have to learn a lesson about distraction. Unless you had some other plans?” Peter’s voice was definitely a full on purr now.

“Um,” Stiles sputtered, “I mean, I have to call my dad. And Scott and I were supposed to Skype later. And I was going to watch this documentary for my logical fallacies seminar, but I could probably rearrange—”

“Oh no,” Peter rumbled, lifting up on his knees to lean over Stiles. “That schedule is perfect. You will definitely do all of those things. And I’ll teach you a little lesson about distraction at the same time.” He leaned in until his nose was tight against Stiles’ neck and his stubble was ticking the soft skin there and he inhaled deeply. “And you’re going to be my very, very good boy, aren’t you, Stiles?”

_Fuck. What had he done? _


End file.
